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Posts tagged as “Svalbar”

PERFECT AND/OR PECULIAR POLAR PUB PURCHASE? Landmark Svalbar put up for sale, gets global attention as the site of a recent polar bear ‘pub crawl’

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Read Time:4 Minute, 58 Second

Among its many colorful tidbits of the pub’s history is a polar bear really did wander right up to its windows this past winter – and that’s being used as a selling point, for a potential buyer with the right mentality.

Of course, there is the not-so-small factor that business lately has been decimated lately by the COVID-19 pandemic, but that isn’t showing in any of the now-gone-viral global media coverage announcing the landmark Svalbar establishment is now up for sale.

About Post Author

Mark Sabbatini

I'm a professional transient living on a tiny Norwegian island next door to the North Pole, where once a week (or thereabouts) I pollute our extreme and pristine environment with paper fishwrappers decorated with seemingly random letters that would cause a thousand monkeys with a thousand typewriters to die of humiliation. Such is the wisdom one acquires after more than 25 years in the world's second-least-respected occupation, much of it roaming the seven continents in search of jazz, unrecognizable street food and escorts I f****d with by insisting they give me the platonic tours of their cities promised in their ads. But it turns out this tiny group of islands known as Svalbard is my True Love and, generous contributions from you willing, I'll keep littering until they dig my body out when my climate-change-deformed apartment collapses or they exile my penniless ass because I'm not even worthy of washing your dirty dishes.
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Lock ’em up, take away the key: Governor tells motorists to stop leaving keys in vehicles after recent thefts

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Read Time:1 Minute, 24 Second

For decades it’s been a tradition for Longyearbyen residents to leave their keys in vehicles because there was virtually no change they’d be stolen. The Governor of Svalbard says those days are over.

About Post Author

Mark Sabbatini

I'm a professional transient living on a tiny Norwegian island next door to the North Pole, where once a week (or thereabouts) I pollute our extreme and pristine environment with paper fishwrappers decorated with seemingly random letters that would cause a thousand monkeys with a thousand typewriters to die of humiliation. Such is the wisdom one acquires after more than 25 years in the world's second-least-respected occupation, much of it roaming the seven continents in search of jazz, unrecognizable street food and escorts I f****d with by insisting they give me the platonic tours of their cities promised in their ads. But it turns out this tiny group of islands known as Svalbard is my True Love and, generous contributions from you willing, I'll keep littering until they dig my body out when my climate-change-deformed apartment collapses or they exile my penniless ass because I'm not even worthy of washing your dirty dishes.
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